


summer tomorrow

by tenderized



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bad Parenting, Canon Compliant, Family Dynamics, Gen, M/M, Practice Kissing, Suna Rintarou-centric, minor suna/a lot of people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27628786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderized/pseuds/tenderized
Summary: Suna gets his mother’s heart-shaped face. That, and her snub nose. Everything else is his own, not a trace of his father, his mother says vindictively, an almost-frown on her face before she remembers her fear of wrinkles and shakes her head, expression clearing.She takes his face into her hands and holds him close. “It means we’re meant to be loved, baby,” she whispers to him and kisses him on the forehead, then once on each eyelid. “Isn’t that lucky?”
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 53
Kudos: 170
Collections: SunaOsa





	1. Star Power

**Author's Note:**

> this fic does explore family dynamics a little and how a parent can affect a child, so if that's something you're not comfortable with please do click away

_“Once, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood.”  
― Nikos Kazantzakis, Report to Greco_

________________________________ 

Suna gets his mother’s heart-shaped face. That, and her snub nose. Everything else is his own, not a trace of his father, his mother says vindictively, an almost-frown on her face before she remembers her fear of wrinkles and shakes her head, expression clearing.

She takes his face into her hands and holds him close. “It means we’re meant to be loved, baby,” she whispers to him and kisses him on the forehead, then once on each eyelid. “Isn’t that lucky?”

She smells like cherry lip gloss, and everything he’s ever needed.

________________________________ 

Suna is a lucky boy, lucky because his mother loves him, lucky because he never had to meet his father, lucky because one day someone’s going to re-discover his mother, and she’ll make it big, bring him with her, and then he’ll never have to work a day in his life.

“Lucky because you’ve got such beautiful eyes, ‘Tarou,” she coos. “See?” She traces a long, painted fingernail over his eyelid, gentle, and he looks at himself in the hand-held mirror. Sharp inner corners, a long, slender line, and then an upward tilt at the outward edge. Thin crease across the lid.

He’s seated on her lap in front of the computer monitor on the dining room table, and the screen is opened to a page on eye shapes. 

“Phoenix eyes,” his mother reads out loud, “Are a sign of heaven’s favor. Virtue and grace, luck and happiness.” She hums in consideration before clicking off the page. 

“ _And_ you’ve got double eyelids,” she says, “All natural! Not like me.” The pad of her index finger tugs at her own eyelid, and she makes a silly face, sticking her tongue out. “Mommy had to get hers done.”

Suna giggles. 

She holds him tight before she glances at the clock hanging on the wall and stands up, hastily settles him down on the floor. He grabs onto her pant leg when he tilts, unbalanced.

“I have to go for my audition now, baby,” she says, kneeling down so they’re face to face. “Kiss on the cheek for luck?”

He kisses her, and she heads over to tug on her heels, gives him a wave as she hops on one foot. She opens the door and slips out.

________________________________ 

In his third year of middle school, his coach pulls him aside one day after practice, waves him over at the end of a short 3v3 practice game.

“Ooh, Suna’s in trouble,” Suzuki, their setter, teases, and Suna rolls his eyes as the other boy starts to wiggle his eyebrows. 

“Everyone, give me five laps! We’ll take a short break afterwards,” their coach orders, and Suna smirks when the others groan. “Suna, follow me. There’s someone that wants to talk to you.”

The squeak of gym shoes against the floor starts as Suna turns away to follow his coach, surreptitiously tugging up his jersey to wipe at the sweat on his face. He can’t remember having done anything wrong, at least not recently, unless maybe this is about his tanking grades, but he’s not too bothered. Anything that gets him out of laps is good in his book.

Outside the heavy double doors of the gym, there’s a bespectacled middle-aged man standing by the water fountain, and he looks up at them as they approach.

“Nakamura-san, thank you for allowing me to watch your team today.”

Suna’s coach dips his head in acknowledgement. “Of course, any time. It's an honor to have you over.”

The other man tilts his head to watch Suna then, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that makes Suna want to straighten up. He slouches a little more.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Rintarou,” he says, and his accent is unfamiliar, round around the vowels. He holds his hand out, and Suna wipes his hand on his shorts before reaching out to meet his grip.

His coach turns towards him, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

“Suna, this is Coach Kurosu from Inarizaki High in Hyogo Prefecture.”

________________________________ 

When he comes home, his mother is on the couch, watching reruns of an old drama.

“How was your day, baby?” 

“Okay.” He dumps his stuff on the ground and heads into the kitchen to pick up a snack. They keep a jar of jelly sticks on the counter, and he’s only supposed to eat one a day, but his mother never notices. The plastic edges are a little sharp, and they scrape against the corners of his mouth when he sucks, but he doesn’t mind. This one’s strawberry flavored, and he’s not supposed to eat too many of them in a row because they’re also his mother’s favorite, but he thinks he deserves it today.

Suna walks back into the living room and throws himself down on the left side of the couch, the cushion sinking in alarmingly as he sits. One of these days, he’ll sit down too hard and get jabbed by one of the springs, but it hasn’t happened yet, and until it finally breaks, he's not likely to change his habits.

Her forehead is wrinkled as she stares at the screen, and she’s chewing on the nail of her thumb. She points at the TV. “Doesn’t her acting look stilted to you?”

Suna looks. “You could do better,” he says, like a dutiful son.

His mother beams. 

Which reminds him, “You’re going to see that director tomorrow, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” His hands are a little sticky from the jelly stick, and he rubs his thumb and forefinger together. On the TV screen, the actress wails as her husband is brought out of a burning house and placed on a stretcher.

“Guess what happened today, Mom?”

“What?” she asks, distracted.

“A coach from a high school came over and talked to me today. He wants me to join their volleyball team.”

His mother turns to look at him, then, her eyes sharp and focused all of a sudden, and wordlessly, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket to hand over Coach Kurosu’s business card.

“You mean a scout?”

“Yeah.” He folds the straw of the jelly stick in half, and then in half again. “He’s been watching my games, and he thinks I’d be a good fit for their team.” He bites his cheek to keep from smiling too broadly at the memory. 

“He thinks my spikes are really unique,” he brags, pride coloring his tone.

There’s a tiny furrow between his mother’s eyebrows as she reads over the business card, and when Suna reaches over for the remote to turn off the TV, she doesn’t even flinch.

“ _Inarizaki_ , Mom. They’re, like, one of the best.” He owns a tape of the games that were played at Nationals last year, and the cheer team of Inarizaki had been unforgettable. That, and the shiny trophy their captain had held up, grinning at the camera, as the audience applauded.

Not first place, not yet. But they could be.

“I don’t know, honey. This says _Amagasaki_ , in Hyogo Prefecture.” She looks up at him with large brown eyes. “That’s really far.”

“We could stay with Grandma, you know she won’t mind.” Last time they had visited, his grandmother had pulled him aside, told him that if he wanted to stay with her, for real, for however long he wanted, if he ever needed to, ever wanted to, he could. He didn’t think she’d been joking.

The plastic crumples in his fist. “And they still came over even though it’s far because they think I’m _that_ good. That means something, doesn’t it?” 

Not to mention, with the state his grades are in, he doesn’t think his high school prospects look too bright if he were to attempt the traditional method through studying for exams. Better schools had better volleyball teams. Water is wet. He’s a good player. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. His grades are still shit.

“Of course it does, baby, and I’m so proud of you, but what about me? I can’t just move somewhere like that, you know job prospects wouldn’t be as good there for me.” She takes back the remote from his loose grip to turn the TV back on.

"What if I went by myself?" he asks, but the hurt look on her face has him backtracking. "Or not, I guess." It's not like he would've done it anyway, even if he could've, wouldn't have left his mother all alone here in Nagoya. Probably. Nonetheless, he frowns. "So that's it? End of story?" _Just like that, huh?_

His mother doesn't look him in the eye.

 _Maybe it’s you that’s the problem._ Suna thinks suddenly, unbidden, the thought sharp and so bitter it leaves him a little breathless. _Nagoya’s a major city, and yet you can’t find a company that wants you here either._

Because this is something he’s realized long ago, realized when he saw his mother come back audition after audition, mouth tight and make up smudged. Realizes every time he finds a letter from their landlord asking for their rent, overdue. 

Talent is something someone is born with. You can practice day in and day out, work harder than anyone else, work as hard as his mother does, but star quality is something you’re _born_ with, and those that have it will always have it, while those that do not, never, ever will.

He stands up, and he’s pleased when his inner turmoil doesn’t show in a tremble when he says, “I’m going to my room,” inflectionless.

“Rintarou,” his mother calls out to him, pleading. “Don’t be mad at me.” 

In his room, he waits for her to follow him, for her to apologize so he can forgive her like he always does, so they can restart their cycle, safe and familiar, but she never does.

________________________________ 

A week later, she’s singing a different tune. 

Earlier, he’d debated staying back at the gym to practice more, dissatisfied with his performance today, but the expectant look that had been plaguing Coach Nakamura’s face all week had left him feeling sick to his stomach, and so he leaves immediately after, avoiding the other’s increasingly questioning gaze.

Now, he sets his backpack down on the ground as his mother beckons to him excitedly.

“Come here, ‘Tarou. Help me choose a restaurant for dinner.”

“I don’t care,” he says, stalling at the door. “Just pick whatever. And I’m not hungry anyway, so you can just go by yourself.”

“Baby,” she says, pouting. “Are you still upset about that school? You know I only want what’s best for us.”

Suna crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. “Well, I wish you would take my future seriously.”

“Honey, you’re still young.” _I’m not_ , he hears her voice whine, because it's her favorite thing to complain about, no matter the fact that people always mistake her for his sister whenever they go out, and he almost rolls his eyes. “You have so much time ahead of you, you need to understand that one setback will not hurt your future.” His mother stares at him with one eyebrow lifted before she sighs.

She takes off her reading glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, letting out a long breath.

“Come on, Rintarou, I’ve changed my mind, okay?” Suna startles, blinking at her. “Now, will you come over and help me pick a damn restaurant?”

Wary, he does as she says and pulls out the other chair at the dining table, next to his mother. 

“What’s the special occasion?” he asks, but what he really wants to do is shake his mother by the shoulders and demand for her to be straight with him for once in her life.

Satisfied, a smile curling at her lips, his mother pulls him close and places a kiss at his temple. 

“Now, if we can all be adults here and not throw tantrums at our poor mothers, what I was _going_ to say was that I’ve changed my mind.” She smiles at him and pinches his nose, laughing when he swats at her hand. 

“I’ve thought it over, and I think Inarizaki is a good choice for you, and yes,” She holds up a finger when he opens his mouth to interrupt. “I’m sorry about the way I was acting before. I was only thinking of myself.”

Suna narrows his eyes at her suspiciously. “Okay…why?”

“You mean you don’t want to go?” she throws back, teasing.

“No!” he flushes. “No, I do.” But this is happening too fast. He just needs to let it settle a little because it doesn’t feel real yet. “Did you call Kurosu-san? To ask him about the arrangement?”

“Not yet, ‘Tarou. But I trust your judgment. You say they’re a good team, right?”

“Don’t you think you should call, though? Ask about the other stuff, like, I don’t know, about the rules or something?” _Aren’t you even a little curious about where I’ll be going to school?_

“Of course, I will. If you want me to,” she replies, a confused smile on her lips now. “Is this about where you’ll stay? I already called Grandma, ‘Tarou,” his mother says, gentle. “She says she’d love to have you stay with her while you attend high school.”

Something in his expression must be off because she follows up with a question, a little impatiently now, when he doesn't say anything. "Aren't you happy? This is what you want, right? It’s not like there’s anyone here you’ll miss. You’ve said so yourself before." 

Suna blinks. "Yeah, I mean, yeah. Yes, thank you, Mom." He offers her a small smile, and when she grins back, he finds that it's genuine.

Which okay, okay, okay.

Okay.

So, here is a fact (not wish): he’s going to be playing volleyball for one of the best teams in the nation. Here is another fact: they’re going to be leaving Aichi in just a few months. Okay.

Then, he registers her words. “You? What do you mean me? What about you?”

“We’ll talk about this during dinner, baby.” She beams at him, excited again, happy flush in her cheeks. “It’s why we’re celebrating. But help me pick a restaurant, yeah? I was thinking Thai, maybe?” She taps a lacquered nail against her chin in thought.

Sure, Thai food, whatever. He nods. He doesn’t think he’d notice if he ate Suzuki’s socks for dinner.

________________________________ 

“Don’t slouch, Rintarou,” his mother snaps, and he knows she’s annoyed with his attitude. “It’s unattractive, and you’re not eighty,” she says, right before rapping her knuckles on the door of his new home.

Now, somewhere near the dusty corners of his new bedroom, Suna finds himself filled to the brim, overflowing a little, with longing for Nagoya. 

It floods him with a suddenness that makes him dizzy, and he sits down on the floor, hard enough to make his tailbone hurt, and curls in on himself, feeling as though if he made himself small enough, he could pack himself into his suitcase and end up back east. 

There’s no bed yet in his room, just the thin mat he’ll be sleeping on for the first few days, until the furniture place sends over the new bed frame, one his mother had picked out, made of light-colored wood and infused with new-things-smell.

It’s strange because his mother was right - there’s nothing for him to miss, really, from Nagoya. 

He was friendly with his teammates and his classmates, but in a detached sort of way, held them at arms-length, the way you do things you know won’t last. 

Because even though he hadn’t known he’d be leaving this suddenly, what he _did_ know was that middle school is a stepping-stone for high school, which is a stepping-stone for college, or the professional world, whatever he decides. 

His eyes have been set on the horizon from day-one, ready for bigger, better things, things he _deserves_ because he's good. 

Maybe he's a little like his mom in that way, biting off more than he can chew. The thought makes the emptiness in his stomach grow.

And yet. 

His heart aches and tips, spilling on to the floor.

His hand reaches into the pocket of his light jacket, and he pulls out a packet of gum. One stick left, and he finds himself unwrapping the silver paper to reveal its inside. Suna shoves the last piece into his mouth and crumples its wrapper in his fist.

When the door opened, his grandmother had taken one look at him, before pinching his ear and herding him into the kitchen, berating him for not eating enough and exclaimed how every time he visits, he just gets skinnier and skinnier, and soon he’ll be nothing but skin and bones and useless on the court.

And while his grandmother fussed over him, his mother had stood to the side and acted a stranger in her own childhood home, already hundreds of kilometers away.

Because his mother had gotten an offer about the audition she'd had the very day after he’d showed her Kurosu’s business card. Her audition had been perfect, apparently, exactly what they were looking for, and this time it isn’t just another facial wash commercial, it’s a _drama_ , 'Tarou, _can you believe it?_

All of a sudden, it's fine if he goes to Hyogo, goes to school a prefecture away, and actually, he _should_ because they've both got great opportunities _right there_ if only they just reach out and take it. 

And he replays that day when he saw her sitting at the dining table, restaurant menus spread over the surface, and he thinks her eyes might have been rimmed red, realizes that she’d probably cried before he came home.

So, yes, he’s happy for her. Of course he is, because she’s his mother, and he loves her.

“Baby, I won’t be staying with you at Grandma’s. I’m going to _Tokyo_.”


	2. the whole pointless night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suna meets the rest of the Inarizaki volleyball team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two at a time - AGA  
> without you - mariah carey
> 
> cw: osamu makes a pretty distasteful joke that could out someone, and even though suna's not bothered it's still there if that's something you're not comfortable with

_“Omne supervacuum pleno de pectore manat: the whole pointless night seeps out of the heart.”  
― Anne Carson, Nox_

________________________________ 

“My name is Suna Rintarou, and I play – ”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” comes an interruption from one of the other first years, and Suna stops, craning his neck to the side to glare at a boy with a wide mouth and heavy eyebrows.

“Shaddup, ‘Tsumu, you can’t just say things like that, it’s rude.” His copy next to him elbows him in the ribs.

“ _You_ shut your mouth, ‘Samu, what’s rude about it, huh? It’s not like I’m sayin’ anything bad about his accent.”

“Like you would know, you wouldn’t know rude if it – ”

“Osamu, Atsumu,” the captain claps his hands together, smiling. “Let’s leave the fighting for later, yeah?”

“Sorry,” one of them, Osamu? Atsumu? says, before slapping his brother (they have to be brothers, they’re _identical_ ), on the back and forcing him into a bow as well.

“I play middle blocker,” Suna finishes, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Thank you for having me.”

As the next boy introduces himself as Ginjima Hitoshi, Suna tunes out, taking the chance to observe Inarizaki’s volleyball team.

The second-year libero notices his stare and smiles back, fingers lifting in a half-wave, before his attention refocuses on Ginjima. Next to him is a kindly-looking boy, Ojiro Aran, Suna recognizes from the National DVD, and on his other side, someone with a luminous, yellow stare.

Kita Shinsuke, he’d introduced himself as, and although Suna’s never even heard of him before, something warns him to be wary.

Standing beside him is Oomimi Ren, with his stern looking face and severe haircut. A middle blocker just like him, he’s tall, towering above the rest and striking even next to the rest of the team. Everyone here’s been to Nationals, Suna realizes suddenly, and he swallows, heart rate increasing.

This could be exactly what's he's been waiting for, he thinks, thoughts fizzy like soda pop. Everything is going to be different now, now that he’s here, and the noise in his head quietens a little.

He unclenches his teeth, and when Inarizaki’s Volleyball Club choruses their welcomes, he finds himself smiling with the rest of the team.

________________________________ 

Fitting in with the rest of the team is simple and painless, and after a few weeks, Suna finds that whatever worries, whatever hidden uneasiness he may have had, have evaporated away, dissipating like mist in the warm, sunny days that accompanied the start of the new school year.

It’s never been difficult for him to act friendly with others. In general, other boys seem to like him well enough, and it’s easy to fit in - he's agreeable enough, laughs when they laugh, doesn't fight for attention and doesn't act like a doormat either. But there are two factors that make it even easier to do so with Inarizaki’s volleyball team.

The first reason is Atsumu. Loud and really annoying, it’s easy to crack a joke at his expense to make the rest of the team laugh. It’s not like he cares either, and if anything, it makes him stick closer, whining in Suna’s ear, so, on top of that, Atsumu’s kinda fun, and everyone’s happy. 

The second reason is Aran. Because they’re all new to a certain extent, but Suna is _new_ new, and apparently Ojiro Aran's got a heart made of cotton candy and is incapable of leaving that sort of person alone. So. He does things like going out of his way to invite Suna to join them for trips to the nearby konbini or to the arcade, and it doesn't escape Suna's notice how he pushes the twins toward him, like he wants them to be _friends_ or something.

The thing is, Aran is certified _cool_ , so Suna can’t even complain about the meddling, even if Atsumu is a major pain in the ass and Osamu not really better at all.

Additionally, he shares a class with two of his teammates, Gin and Osamu, so they're all close now by proximity effect or whatever. Ever since that first day of practice, where Gin’s natural friendliness led him to the edge of Suna’s desk to ask if he wanted to eat lunch together, Suna thinks he can probably call them friends now.

And Osamu, well Osamu’s just kind of there. It’s honestly a little hard to read the other boy. They all eat together now because Gin had asked, and because Atsumu had complained about being left out, but whether or not Osamu actually wants to be there is questionable.

The thing about the Miya twins is that they’re _popular_ , like really, really popular, actually, and practically half the grade is in love with them. In fact, Atsumu received a confession on the first day of school (the only reason Suna knows about it is because the other refuses to shut up about it), and he’s pretty sure Osamu’s gotten a few as well already.

But even though Osamu is popular and even though he’s friendly and people like him, he doesn’t really seem to have any other friends. This realization pops into Suna’s head one day, randomly, and he wonders if Osamu even likes these people back. It’s something interesting to mull over. And once you start noticing something, it's hard to un-notice it, and now he sees that there are times when he glances over at the other boy when the other’s not looking, and the expression on Osamu’s face, it seems almost practiced sometimes.

But at this point in time, that's all irrelevant, because right now, Osamu’s got a downright foreboding atmosphere to him. 

“What’s that look for?” Suna asks, not liking the way Osamu is staring at him. 

Today, they’re seated on a bench outside the gym, tucked in beneath a tall, cherry blossom tree, and Suna has to squint a little to look at the other because it’s one of those days where the sun is so bright it makes everything outside a little hard to look at, all white-edged and too saturated.

Osamu ignores his question and shoves an entire inarizushi into his mouth, chewing pointedly at him. 

Suna huffs, rolling his eyes, and reaches out to pull the other’s half-finished bento away from him, holding it behind himself where Osamu can’t reach.

“Well?”

Osamu swallows, and then looks down at his shirt where a grain of rice has fallen. He brings it to his mouth and eats that, too, before he licks his fingers, ignoring Suna’s disgusted face.

“Nothin’, really,” Osamu says slowly, dragging it out, like he relishes Suna’s discomfort. Whoever says Osamu’s the nice twin has never had an actual conversation with the other, clearly. It is both a blessing and a curse to know this side of him. Just a curse, right now, though. “Just never thought the great Suna Rintarou got crushes like us mere mortals.”

And - Suna's thoughts grind to a halt - what?

Suna narrows his eyes and steals one of Osamu’s inarizushi out of the bento box and stuffs it in his own mouth. “What are you talking about?” he manages around it.

Before the other can answer, however, Oomimi steps out from the gym. Their upperclassman calls out to them, informing them that break is over, and despite the distance, he doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard, his deep voice familiar to Suna’s ears.

Contrary to expectations, after Osamu raises a hand in acknowledgement, Oomimi doesn’t turn back around to step inside but begins walking towards them, and before Suna can school his expression, the second year is next to them, his tall frame forcing Suna to crane his neck to meet his gaze.

Humidity hangs heavy around them, and Suna fidgets a little, aware that his fingers are sticky from sauce. He has the unreasonable urge to pull at the edges of his shorts so they cover more of his thighs, and across from him, he can feel Osamu’s blunt stare, like a brand.

“Are you feelin’ better, Suna?” Oomimi settles a hand, warm and heavy, against his shoulder, and Suna fights a nervous twitch. “Noticed you were a little under the weather today.”

Suna swallows the food in his mouth with a haste he’s uncomfortable with, the sweet juices from the tofu skin clinging against the walls of his throat.

“Um, yes. Thank you, Oomimi-senpai,” he says, and then he’s subjected to Oomimi’s stern-faced look, the other’s flinty gaze assessing his words.

The older nods in acknowledgement then, quick and perfunctory. “Alright, Coach is waiting, you two.”

With a firm squeeze to his shoulder, he leaves, and Suna can breathe freely again. 

Next to him, Osamu snorts, and Suna turns back towards him. When the other boy raises an eyebrow, Suna swipes at his face, deliberately not turning to watch their upperclassman walk away.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he says half-heartedly, picking up the thread of conversation that had been interrupted, and he picks at the rest of Osamu’s lunch, lying abandoned between them.

It’s normal to feel nervous around Oomimi. He’s tall and has a scary looking face, and on top of it all, is a formidable volleyball player. The middle blocker regular on the team. Suna doesn’t do people pleasing, but If there’s a team member he’d want to impress, it would be him. 

“Things like what?” Osamu asks, and Suna knows he’s being deliberately dense.

“You suck.” Suna frowns at him.

Osamu leans in closer, then, close enough that Suna notices for the first time, a small mole near the other’s left eyebrow, before bringing up the back of his hand to press against Suna’s cheek. His touch is cool and brief and before Suna can blink, it moves to his forehead. 

Suna reaches up to swat him away, making a face, and Osamu smiles.

“What?” Suna says, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing,” Osamu hums. “You don’t seem sick to me. But it’s sweet that Oomimi-senpai was worried, huh?” He laughs as Suna colors.

“Whatever, man,” Osamu grins and stands up, wiping his sticky fingertips on his jersey. “Race ya back?”

Suna gets up as well and hands the other’s now-empty bento back to him. “Fat chance.” Eating always makes him feel sluggish afterwards, stomach feeling heavy and unhappy. He doesn’t know how Osamu does it, how he’s re-energized after every meal, and he’s starting to suspect that the other’s just the tiniest bit inhuman. 

They’re just going to be doing drills when they get back to the gym anyway, so why would he waste extra energy?

Or so he thinks, but as Osamu walks past him, he delivers a loud smack to Suna’s ass, right before he takes off running, whooping loudly, and, well, he can always make an exception for Osamu.

________________________________ 

Suna wishes Osamu had never opened his big, fat mouth because now he can’t help overanalyzing every one of his own interactions with the second-year middle blocker.

Suna’s never been a man of many words, but Oomimi Ren somehow manages to talk even less than him. Even so, there’s nothing boring about the other boy, whether it’s the way his palms redden easily, like blooming carnations, whenever he goes in for a block, or the way he holds his teacup with just three of his fingers when he and Kita do whatever it is they do during lunch, or his surprisingly witty one-liners.

He ruffles Suna’s hair sometimes, like he’s proud of him or some weird thing like that, and Suna pretends to hate it every time, but still, he knows himself well enough, respects himself enough not to lie and say he actually does.

It’s probably good for his volleyball skills, too, because when Oomimi asks to practice a little more, Suna can never find it in himself to refuse. Their captain looks on in approval, and so does Kita, that strange second-year player. Suna ducks away from Kita’s knowing gaze, ears feeling hot.

It’s a little infuriating, too, because Osamu’s taken to wearing that smug look on his face whenever they’re even in the presence of the second years, and it’s unsubtle enough that Atsumu and Gin have started pestering him about it.

“Yo, ‘Samu, what’s that constipated look on your face for?” They’re all seated near the bleachers, waiting for the rest of the team to file in to take yearbook photos.

“Shut up, Atsumu,” Suna says, habitual.

“Hey, I didn’t realize I was talkin’ to _you_ , Sunarin.” Atsumu throws back and shoves his way between Suna and Osamu, sitting between them. On Suna’s other side, Gin squats down, drinking from a juice box. He hands it over to Suna, when the other reaches for it, though he keeps his hand hovering over the box to make sure Suna doesn’t accidentally drink too much.

“Shut up, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu parrots, but because he’s not actually ever on Suna’s side, continues after a pause, “Doesn’t Oomimi-senpai look extra good today?”

Suna turns to look, like he’s some dog Osamu’s trained, but he can’t help himself. And it’s true, because Oomimi does look nice today, looks like he’s got some product in his hair or something, and it sure does look worlds better than the shit that the Miyas have got on.

Everyone does seem to look nicer today, he notices. Or something. Gin’s even wearing cologne he thinks, and he leans in closer to sniff.

“Showered today?” he teases, and Gin whines, pushing him away. Suna cants back, smirking. Himself, he’d tried extra hard to tame his hair today, even if it had been a lost cause. _‘Tarou, you’re taking photos tomorrow? With that volleyball team of yours, right? Please remember to brush that bird's nest of yours, darling, and you have to send me pictures when they come out, okay? I miss my baby so much. I want to see your friends._

“What the hell are you talking about?” Atsumu squints at his brother. “You got the hots for him or somethin’?”

“Not me,” and Osamu looks pleased with himself. “But – ”

And now, Suna’s forced to shut the other up with his hand, kneeing Atsumu in the stomach as he leans over to cover Osamu’s mouth with his palm before he can say anything more incriminating.

Atsumu squawks, shoving Suna off of him and closer to his brother, standing up in a huff. Beneath his hand, Osamu makes an indignant noise, angry puffs of air warming his palm, but Suna refuses to budge even when the older licks his skin.

“Hey, guys, come on, what’s going on?” Gin butts in, confused. “Suna, please get off of Osamu, they’re looking at us now,” he whispers urgently. He tugs at the collar of Suna’s shirt, and when Suna doesn’t move, decides to put his freakish strength to use to pull him up.

Suna drags Osamu up with him. “You. Shut up.” He says, and he punctuates this with a jab at the other’s chest. 

“What the hell?” Atsumu crosses his arms, looking between the two of them suspiciously. “You guys gonna say what that was about or what?”

Before either of them can answer, however, Kurosu yells for them to come line up, and their bickering is forgotten. As Gin and Atsumu hurry on ahead, Osamu reaches out and tugs on Suna’s wrist.

“Hey.” Another tug, so Suna’s facing him. Osamu’s eyes are dark-lashed and very, very grey. Like asphalt. “I wouldn’t really have said anything, y’know.”

Suna stares back, gaze narrowing. He pulls his arm back lightly, rubbing his wrist where the other had gripped. “Alright.”

“Seriously." Osamu frowns. "So,” His eyes flick away, to Suna’s right ear. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be a dick.”

Suna doesn’t say anything for a moment, amused as he watches the other stew. “Okay. I said it’s fine.” He turns around and starts walking away, and Osamu hurries to follow him. “I don’t actually care, just so you know. It’s just that Atsumu would be even more insufferable than you, and I’d just rather not.”

“I’m still sorry, though.” 

Suna snorts. “Didn’t take you for someone to apologize so easily.”

Osamu knocks into him with his shoulder. “I’m not ‘Tsumu, I know when I’m in the wrong,” he defends, and Suna hums, considering.

Then, he opens his mouth and says, “You know, you talk about me liking Oomimi-senpai an awful lot, more than I talk about him. Something you wanna share?” At the other’s wide-eyed gape, he starts to laugh. “I'm joking, Miya.” He tugs on Osamu’s wrist and quickens his pace. “Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

________________________________ 

It's interesting. In observing Oomimi, it’s inevitable that he would also start to find Kita in the crosshairs as well, Suna realizes later, especially with how the two are attached practically at the hip.

Kita Shinsuke is neither the best player on the team nor the captain, but still, there’s something arresting about him that forces others to watch and listen.

At the beginning of the year, Atsumu had sneered down his nose at the other in typical Atsumu-fashion, unwilling to hand over respect to someone that wasn’t even a starting player, and despite Aran’s warnings, he’d gone up to the other and told Kita exactly how he felt about him. It’s different now, though, and even though Kita never shouts or yells or even raises his voice, now all the first-years straighten at the sound of his voice, like some sort of group Pavlov effect.

Kita is a little bit perfect, a little bit _too_ perfect, what with the way he’s never skimped out on practice, is always the first to arrive, is always composed. Is always able to follow through and _commit_ to anything he sets his mind to. 

It makes Suna feel a little crazy, the way the other never has a hair out of place, and he can’t help but wish something would happen to shatter that mask.

“You’re staring,” Osamu whispers, breath warm against the shell of his ear, and Suna jolts.

________________________________ 

Anyway, confusing feelings about his upperclassmen aside, he’s doing relatively well, he thinks.

“- and so I have to pack for training camp today.” Suna’s lying on his bed, staring at his ceiling, phone on speaker beside him on the pillow. He hesitates then and thinks about what to say next.

“That sounds wonderful, ‘Tarou. I’m glad you’re having fun.” There's background noise on her side, and his mom sounds the slightest bit tired. Suna furrows his eyebrows together, feeling bad.

“You can go to sleep, Mom, it’s pretty late.” His mother’s schedule doesn’t allow her to call often, and since he’s at school and practice all day, and because his mother works odd hours, most of their phone calls have been near midnight. 

It had started with a _I’ll call every day, baby, I_ promise, _you know you’re most important to me_ , and changed to a _I’m sorry, Mommy’s just so tired_ twice a week, to a call on the weekend maybe once a week, if they’re lucky.

“Sorry I’ve been so flaky, baby, it’s just, there are a lot of people expecting a lot from me, and it’s so hard sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about me, Mom, I need to finish up and go to bed soon anyway.” He picks at a loose thread on his bedsheets. “You’re doing okay, though?”

“I’m doing really great, baby. There’s so much to learn,” his mom tells him, voice perking up again, and he listens as she babbles.

“- and so we’re going to run through the lines tomorrow. Ah, but I should really get going now, they need us up super early,” his mother finishes. “I love you, baby,” she says and makes a loud kissing noise that has Suna wrinkling his nose but smiling, nonetheless. “’Night, night. Don't stay up too late.” 

“Okay, Mom, love you, too. ‘Night.” His mother hangs up, and his room goes quiet but for the sound of his own breathing.

He lies there, eyes closed, for how long he doesn’t know, and imagines himself floating in space and alone among the bright pinprick stars. Once, he’d read that prior to shooting off into space, astronauts underwent training where they were shut in a pitch-black room and left to float in water calibrated to the exact same temperature as their body temperature. 

It was meant to emulate a sensation of nothingness, apparently, a world where all the senses were muffled and you were completely, truly alone, with nothing but your own thoughts.

Whether or not it was true, he had no idea, but ever since he’d first read it, the idea of it was determined to stay in his head.

Eventually, he’s brought out of his stupor when his phone vibrates.

He brings it to his face, squinting at the notifications, the blue light harsh on his eyes in the dark of his room. 6 unread messages. Three from Atsumu in a group chat he shares with the rest of the volleyball team. One from a classmate. Two from Osamu.

Feeling exhausted all of a sudden, he sets the phone down on the floor by his bed and turns around to face the wall. He’ll just pack in the morning.


	3. second love, third love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> liquid smooth - mitski

_"There’s a Japanese phrase that I like: koi no yokan.  
It doesn’t mean love at first sight. It’s closer to love at second sight.  
It’s the feeling when you meet someone that you’re going to fall in love with them.  
Maybe you don’t love them right away, but it’s inevitable that you will."  
― Nicola Yoon, The Sun is Also a Star_

________________________________ 

They’ve just finished their last game of the school year - for the third years, the last game of their high school careers. 

They won, and it is only right, Suna thinks, to have a triumphant end for the upperclassmen of the best team in the prefecture. Victory is sweet, feels like a shot of liquid gold in his veins, a reminder about why he practices, why he does any of this, and across from him, his teammates’ faces are similarly flushed and bright.

There’s a wall of heat between his thigh and Oomimi’s, hot and humid and sweaty. It’s disgusting, and Suna yearns to both lean away and close the gap. He almost does, move closer skin to skin, high from their win, but in the end, he does neither, suffering in the in between.

When they’re dismissed by the coach to go back to the locker rooms to clean up, Suna bends down to tie his laces, and there’s a slow slide as a drop of sweat rolls off the tip of his nose and lands on the shiny finish of the floor panels. 

As he straightens, Aran walks past him, grasps him on his upper arm.

“Good game today, Rintarou,” he says, and Suna smiles, warmed.

________________________________ 

There’s someone walking their dog, odd in this early hour, down in the streets below, and their silhouettes are backlit by the yellow glow of the street lamps. The pair emerges from the shadows and then fades back in, gone without a sound.

Suna had snuck out of the motel where the team was staying when his phone had rung, everyone else fast asleep, and he’d walked across the parking spaces at the front to the edge of the sharp slope, to lean over the railing there.

His phone blinks at him now as the call ends, the white glare harsh in the dead of night, and he sighs, shoving it back into the pocket of his sweatshirt. He tugs at the frayed strings of the hood, drawing the opening closer around his neck.

It smells better here than it did in Nagoya, he has to admit. Like cypress and cedar and wintered wind. 

He tugs on a piece of skin on his bottom lip too hard with his teeth, and it rips, starting to bleed and tasting of salt and iron.

It’s late enough that his head is starting to protest being awake, and he debates going back in or staying outside to watch the sun rise.

They have the long bus ride back, he reasons, and so he doesn’t move, more out of lack of motivation than any real desire to watch the sun come up.

After a while, his ears pick up on the sound of sneakers against the loose gravel, whoever’s approaching not trying to mask the sound. 

“Hey.” It's a throaty sound that greets his ears, like an exhale after holding your breath in your lungs.

Suna’s fingers tighten on the railing, and he dips his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge that he’s heard.

“Hey, yourself.”

“Fuckin’ early,” Osamu complains, breaths coming out in soft white puffs. His hair is all ruffled, Suna notices when he looks at him from the corner of his eye. “Aren’t ya cold?”

“No one asked you to wake up,” Suna points out. “Go back to sleep or something.” He finally turns around to fully acknowledge the other, leans against his forearms on the railing.

Osamu is bundled in a hoodie, and over it, an oversized winter jacket. His cheeks and nose are blushed from the wind, face still puffy from sleep.

“Unless you came to offer me your jacket or something.” Suna raises an eyebrow.

“Keep dreamin’,” Osamu scoffs and steps closer. One hand reaches out to grab at Suna’s fingers, limp in his hold, before he drops it as if shocked. “Sheesh, you’re freezin’,” he exclaims. “What, were you out here all night?”

Suna shakes his head. “Nah, just an hour or so.”

“An hour.” Osamu’s thick eyebrows inch up his face. “And we all went to bed at like three. You’re insane.”

He joins Suna at the railing then, shuffling in close, and Suna allows it, turning back around to gaze at the houses below them. A car parks at a building, and someone steps out, probably to set up shop.

“Wanna hold hands in my pockets?” Osamu asks after no one speaks in a long while. 

Suna snorts. “Keep dreaming,” he parrots.

The other is silent after that then, and Suna zones out again. Moments later, Osamu starts to rustle next to him. A weight, warm from the older’s body heat, settles against his shoulders.

“Wow,” Suna almost whistles. “You really are that easy.”

“Fuck off. You're seriously the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met,” Osamu replies. “And that's including ‘Tsumu.”

“I don’t even know you,” Suna says, not really meaning it. Nonetheless, the other’s jacket around his shoulders is a welcome respite, and he nestles deeper into its comfort.

Osamu, to his credit, doesn’t so much as flinch. They’re pushed up close, arm to arm like this, and Suna is loath to move away, especially when he’s already warmed up the guardrail here with his body heat and shifting would mean he’d have to redo it all over again.

With the wind blowing in his face like this, his nose refuses to stop dripping, and he sniffles pathetically. Next to him, Osamu’s shoulder is right there, and all of a sudden, Suna wants to lay his cheek against it, head heavy, so he does, presses his skin to rough fabric and the heat seeping through.

They stand like that for what feels like hours, staring off the slope at the twinkling streetlights below, until their fingers are going blue, and Suna’s feet are numb inside his double-layered socks.

“So, who called you?” Osamu asks, and Suna is reminded that despite being the quieter one, both Miya twins are, at the core, nosy bastards.

“You heard that?”

“Woke me up. Usually, I’m a pretty deep sleeper, but when I’m not at home,” Osamu shrugs and doesn’t finish his sentence. “’S why I’m here, anyway.”

Suna worries his bottom lip between his teeth again, contemplative.

“My mom,” he says finally.

“Oh.” Osamu’s lips part into a pink circle, so perfectly round it’s almost endearing. “She worried about you bein’ away?”

“Something like that.” On the fencing, Osamu’s hands are going purple at the knuckles, and Suna sighs.

He reaches out, tugs at Osamu’s right hand and brings it with him into the left pocket of Osamu’s jacket. The other’s fingers are icy, blunt nails scraping against his skin.

“We don’t live together right now, and her job means she calls at odd hours,” he offers.

Osamu nods slowly. “Oh,” he repeats. 

Hands clasped together inside the jacket pocket, the feeling starts to come back to his fingers.

“Hey, it’s light out, now,” Osamu points out, and Suna cranes his neck to look up at the sky. Huh. He hadn’t even noticed the sun had risen. 

When he looks back, Osamu’s still gazing at him, and his eyes are very, very dark. “Too bad we didn’t see it come up,” he says, and Suna watches his glance fall to his mouth. He mirrors the action unconsciously. “Even though we got up so early.”

 _You've got eyes like a cow,_ Suna doesn't say. _Liquid smooth, like a pool of water._ “Wrong direction, probably,” he muses, licking his dry lips.

“Yeah. Well.” Above them, the morning sky is streaked with pink and pastel clouds, like something out of a Renaissance painting. “’Least the view’s pretty.”

________________________________ 

Kita cries when he receives his new jersey, the white number one stark against the black background.

“I didn’t know he could do that,” Suna mutters under his breath, gaze fixated on the other’s red-rimmed eyes, and overhearing, Gin elbows him in the ribs.

The first semester of his second year at Inarizaki passes without much ado. He no longer flinches when left alone with Oomimi, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes the thought of the other no longer has his palms sweating. 

Kita leads with an iron fist, a benevolent god, and they fall into line under his watchful eye. _If you’re going to do something, do it right,_ he says. From the beginning all the way until the miserable end.

Sometimes Suna feels too big in his own skin, and the thought of caring too much, too much about the game, too much about his teammates, too much about what Kita thinks, too much about _anything_ , makes him feel unreasonably embarrassed.

He pushes back a little, just to test the limits. After all, Kita is only a seventeen-year-old boy; there’s bound to be a line.

It’s easier to do at the end of games, especially when they’re winning. It’s close enough that it shouldn’t matter whether he jumps high enough, whether he stretches out far enough for the ball.

Is it arrogance? He’s not sure. Just, he knows they’re going to win anyway. His mother’s words echo back at him, _We_ deserve _this_.

Calling it complacency feels a lot like giving up, so he doesn’t think about it.

________________________________ 

The setting of the sun creeps up on them, the round disk of it turning blood-red-orange, a cartoonish color almost, as it threatens to dip below the surface of the lake. Its long fingers stretch towards the embankment, flashing gold and bright in the reflecting water.

Suna watches through half-lidded eyes, feeling a little drowsy, as Atsumu chases Gin along the shoreline, hands outstretched and holding something. Even their loud jostling is muffled by the heavy summer heat, shimmering at the edges of the horizon, and the world moves in slow snapshots, frame by frame.

A figure breaks away from the duo and heads towards him, trudging back up the hill, and he’s backlit by the sunset, silhouette greyed out.

Osamu settles down heavily next to him, and Suna slants his gaze towards the other.

“Tired of them already?” Suna asks, raising his eyebrows.

“You looked lonely,” Osamu replies, looking back at him, and his bare foot shakes back and forth in the sand, restless. He’s broadened in the past year, shot up like it’s a competition between him and Atsumu, too, and his uniform is too short on his long legs.

Suna hums. “Not really.” 

He knocks his shoulder against the other and glances back out towards the others. 

“How long do you think it’ll take before Gin gets tired of Atsumu and beats his ass?” he wonders.

Osamu doesn’t turn to look, and Suna can feel the weight of his scrutiny heavy against his skin. 

“Nah, Gin wouldn’t. He’s too nice for that.”

“Too bad. I’d like to see it.” Instinctively, his hand reaches for his phone, and he runs a finger along its smooth case. He tilts his head back towards Osamu and meets his stare.

They hold eye contact for one, two seconds, and Suna blinks at him, watches as the slight breeze ruffles Osamu’s hair and brushes it into his face. He reaches out and flicks a strand away, and the lock falls back into place.

“What?” he challenges, when Osamu doesn’t say anything, and the silence drags on. “Do I have something on my face?”

Osamu’s expression doesn’t change, but something about the atmosphere does, an almost imperceptible shift. He chooses to ignore it for now, and even as he does, he wonders just how long a decision like that can last. 

The squawking of the waterbirds dims down to a subdued murmur.

As the other swallows, he finds himself glancing down to Osamu’s Adam’s apple, drawn in, and he finds that the older’s school uniform is unbuttoned down three buttons, the skin of his chest and throat flushed, his tie askew. Messy.

His own skin feels sticky and hot, and suddenly he wants to leave, go home and strip himself of his clothes, lie on his bed with the fan blowing at his face.

He’s about to say as much, an excuse ready at the tip of his tongue, when suddenly, Osamu leans in, his frame blocking out the yellow light, and touches their mouths together.

Suna doesn’t move, not even to stiffen in surprise, and the bump of their lips is clumsy, dry. A lingering press. In the next moment, Osamu is leaning back out of his space again, settling his weight on his hands behind him. 

The birds warble something low and longing.

The other’s mouth twists. “No?” Osamu says, not a question really, and licks his lips, wetting them.

Suna chews on the inside of his cheek. “You surprised me.”

Osamu raises an eyebrow and snorts. “Did I?” He grabs a handful of sand from the short space separating them, and Suna watches as they fall from his palm, slipping quick and fast through his fingers.

“No,” He’s not sure, doesn’t know, and now that the moment is over, it feels hazy and soft as a dream, to be quickly forgotten. “Not really, I guess.”

He wonders if he should apologize. Or if, Osamu ought to, even. Maybe not.

Osamu looks away then, back towards the others. Gin is thrashing in Atsumu’s hold, and as Suna watches, they topple over and into the water, startling the birds, and they’re submerged for one second, two, before their heads are bobbing back up, breaking through the surface again.

“Okay,” Suna hears. He reaches out and pats Osamu’s hand, soft brush of fingertips. “That’s fine, then.”

A couple seconds later, Atsumu is wailing that his underwear and socks are wet and yelling for someone to come here, quick, and bring a towel for god’s sake, or he’s going to strip right there in the open. 

Suna can’t be bothered, so Osamu’s the one to trudge over, leaving him behind.

Suna leans all the way back, shielding his eyes with the back of his hand, careful of the glare of the evening’s light, and decides he might as well just nap here. Someone will wake him up when it’s time to leave.

________________________________ 

“Hey, Gin,” Suna says offhandedly one day. It’s just the two of them in an empty classroom, the Miya twins doing who knows what who knows where. “You ever kiss anyone before?”

“What?” the other boy’s eyebrows furrow together, and he gapes before beginning to sputter, finally looking up from his homework. “Why d’ya ask?”

Suna tilts his head. “Just curious. You haven’t, have you?”

“Of – _what_ \- of course I have!”

“Your mom doesn’t count,” he replies, inspecting his nails. 

“Oh, screw off, Suna, I’ve kissed people before. And not my mom.”

“ _People_ , huh?” Suna smirks. “You player.”

Ginjima’s flustered, clear in the way his nose wrinkles, and he fails to make eye contact. “You still haven’t told me why ya asked,” he repeats, insistent.

“I dunno. Just thought I’d ask,” Suna shrugs. “See if you wanted to try it out.”

“Try it out,” Ginjima mouths, face blank before the words register, and then his eyebrows are flying up to his hairline comically. “I’m a _guy_ , Suna!”

Suna leans forward now, smiling, close enough that he could count the sun-freckles on the other’s cheeks if he wanted to. “There’s nothing weird about kissing your friends, Gin-ji-ma. It’s just.” He searches for a word. “…practice.” 

He lowers his voice. “Not unless you’ve got feelings for me, yeah?” He cocks an eyebrow at the other, smile widening as the other reddens.

Then he sits back. “Which you don’t. And,” he reaches out flick the other on the forehead. “I definitely don’t for you. So.” He drums his fingers against the desktop, waiting.

“Go do it with Osamu or somethin’,” Gin counters. “And don’t involve innocents like me in the crossfire.”

Suna frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “No way.” After a few moments of silence, he picks up his phone and swipes at the screen mindlessly. “Well, if you don’t want to, it’s whatever. I wasn’t serious anyway.”

He can feel the other’s judgmental stare, and he avoids it resolutely.

“Are you sulking?” Gin’s incredulous voice breaks through the silence, and Suna sighs.

“I’m not.” Suna looks up to meet his gaze, smoothing his expression out to something neutral. “Just forget it,” he says and turns away dismissively.

“How am I s’posed to just – ” Gin throws his hands up in the air, homework completely forgotten now. “You know what, never mind.” A tense beat, and Suna hears as the other returns to his worksheets, pencil scratching across paper, but after a couple of seconds, the sound of the pencil dropping onto the desk and then, “Okay, let’s do it.”

Suna looks at him. "Okay," Ginjima says again, like he's hyping himself up.

“Well, you change your mind fast.” Suna grins, hiding his surprise, and tucks his phone back into his pocket. He inches his chair closer to the other, until their knees brush.

Gin is blushing, so much it’s almost cute, and Suna has to resist the urge to poke more fun at him, knowing that the other is skittish as a foal.

“You smell like Axe,” he whispers, sliding his hand up to rest awkwardly at the older's shoulder. “Like too much. Maybe that’s why you don’t have a girlfriend yet.”

“You are seriously,” Gin cuts himself off. “I’m surrounded by idiots,” he mutters. When he speaks, warm breaths coast along Suna’s lips, and he has to stop himself from licking them.

He brings one hot, sweaty hand to fist at Suna’s collar and brings him closer.

Ginjima’s lips are dry and chapped, and they rub against Suna’s clumsily, sweet and uncoordinated. Suna gasps as he pulls away.

“Hmm,” he hums, and then he’s diving back in. This time, the slide of their mouths is easier, and tentatively, he brings his tongue to swipe at the seam of the other’s lips, questioning.

Gin opens up underneath him, and Suna’s tongue darts along the swell of his bottom lip. Then, they’re pulling apart again.

“Tongue,” Gin says, strangled.

Suna stares back, delighted, and snickers, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth to wipe away the spit.

He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, the classroom door slams open, and Atsumu saunters in, followed by his brother.

“What’s up, losers, miss me?” he says, throwing his backpack onto a nearby desk and sprawling onto the chair.

“You wish,” Suna says, rolling his eyes and backing away from Gin subtly. Beside him, Gin is scrambling to straighten out his shirt, tips of his ears pink.

Osamu eyes them suspiciously, dragging a chair over from a desk farther away, and the squeal of the legs against the floor have Suna inwardly recoiling. 

Atsumu flips open his workbook, either oblivious or not caring. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.

“Well, who’s got the answer to number six?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of them, in fact, had the answer to number six.


	4. honey sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sit. I don’t bite. What are you so scared about all of a sudden?” He leans his head on his hand and watches Osamu make his way over to settle on the edge of his bed. “Were we like this before?” he asks, to no one in particular.

“You wanna come over after school today?” Suna asks Osamu during their lunch break, hands in his pockets, and he keeps his voice nonchalant, light, like he couldn’t care less. Even though it's lunch time, everyone stays inside, the rain greying the world beyond the windows to a slurry of watercolor. 

Osamu squints at him for a second or two. Today, his eyes are the color of sleet and the sky outside. “Okay,” he answers with his mouth full, and Suna wrinkles his nose. “That's a first. Any reason in particular?”

Suna’s saved from having to elaborate (and since when has he ever needed to explain himself to Osamu?) by one of their classmates interrupting.

“Osamu-kun?” she says, and in her hands is a measuring tape. Her face is a little red, and Suna blinks at her in interest and runs through a mental catalogue. Saitou Chihiro, plays French horn in Inarizaki’s band, unofficially the third hottest girl in school as determined by folded notepaper votes, and in charge of their class’s costumes for the school festival. “You haven’t gotten your measurements for the play yet, right? Could we do that now, if you’re free?”

Osamu glances down at the sandwich in his hands, deliberate, and then to Suna, before finally back at her, one eyebrow raised, like the rude bastard he is.

“Well, I’m kinda in the middle-”

Suna delivers a well-placed kick to the leg of Osamu’s desk, and the other topples from where he was perched on top, hand reaching out to grip Suna’s shoulder for purchase.

“He’d be happy to,” Suna answers for him, unapologetic even as Osamu glares daggers at him. “Here,” he holds his hand out to the other. “Gimme,” he says, and Osamu reluctantly parts with his lunch before wiping the crumbs off on the legs of his uniform trousers.

“Don’t you dare eat any,” Osamu threatens, and Suna rolls his eyes.

“Like I would,” he replies. “I’m not Atsumu.”

“Suna-kun, we’ll need to get your measurements next as well,” Saitou says, and Suna raises a hand in acknowledgement as he watches her wrap the measuring tape around Osamu’s trim waist, an unmistakable blush heating the tips of her ears as she does so.

“Um, could you lift your arms to the side? I need to get the chest, too?” she asks, the ends of her sentences pitching higher like she’s unsure of herself.

“Make sure you hold your breath, Saitou-san,” Suna teases, resting his chin on his palm as he watches. “I wouldn’t get too close. Volleyball players and their hygiene, right?”

“Shaddup, Suna,” Osamu raises both hands in a middle-fingered salute. “You’re on the team, too, idiot.”

“Sorry, my bad, I meant Osamu and his hygiene, specifically.”

Saitou laughs nervously. “No worries, Osamu, I think you smell good, I mean, not that I think you smell good, I mean I’m not worried about your hygiene – ”

Suna hides a smile in his hand as he watches Osamu start to turn red and jerks an eyebrow up when Osamu throws a half-hearted glower his way.

“Ignore him, he’s an ass,” Osamu tells her, and directs a reassuring smile at her that has Suna glancing away, feeling as if he’s intruding when she tucks her hair behind her ear and hides her face shyly.

When it’s his turn to be measured, he stands up, and Osamu takes his chair with a yank that almost sends him sprawling. When Suna turns to look at him, however, he's got an innocent look on his face, and Osamu jerks his head toward their classmate, silently telling him to hurry up.

Saitou’s short enough that even when she’s standing in front of him and holding the tape up to measure the width of his shoulders, he can see right over her head to where Osamu is staring at him, a slight furrow in his brow and his expression contemplative.

Suna holds his gaze as Saitou coils the measuring tape around his neck, unsure about what exactly the other is searching for but refusing to be the first to look away.

When Saitou finally finishes, leaving after he gives her a quiet thanks, he walks back to Osamu, taking his chair back and forcing the other to relocate.

“What was that?” Osamu asks, as he drags another chair over and slumps over Suna's desk, his sleeves pushed up and forearms crossed.

“What was what?” Suna throws back.

“With Saitou.”

“Nothing,” Suna replies nonchalantly, and then after pausing for maximum suspense, continues. “She likes you, you know.”

“Huh? She does? How do you know?” Osamu cranes his head around to find her, and when he does, stares at where she’s hunched over a desk with a couple of their other classmates, discussing sizing, before turning back to Suna.

Suna shrugs. If Osamu can’t tell, that’s his problem. “Kinda obvious to anyone with a brain.”

“Okay…” Osamu drags out the word and tilts his head at Suna. "So."

Suna mimics his posture. “So what?”

“Yeah, so what,” Osamu repeats and leans back in his chair. “You jealous or somethin’?” There’s a look on his face that Suna doesn’t want to interpret, so he doesn’t. He doesn’t roll his eyes either, no matter how he desperately wants to, because if nothing else, Osamu’s still his friend.

“No.”

“Well, alright.” Osamu holds his hands up, trying for a grin. “That was fast, man. Kinda hurts my ego.”

“Then go ask Saitou to kiss it better.”

Osamu looks at him before he speaks again after a moment. When he does, his voice is quiet. “Do you think I should?” he asks, earnest in a way that has Suna shifting in his seat. The other backtracks, “Not literally, obviously, but like ask her out on a date?”

“If that’s what you want.” Suna gives another shrug. He's been doing a lot of that recently, and he reaches up to massage at his shoulder absently.

“Well, what do _you_ think?”

“I don’t see why that matters.” At Osamu’s pout, Suna relents. “But for the record, I don’t care. Date her if you want, seriously.”

It’s clearly not the answer that Osamu wants, but Suna doesn’t have another one to give, and he doesn’t say anything else even as Osamu runs a frustrated hand through his fringe, his hair stubbornly sticking up even after his fingers are back in his lap.

“Well, I don’t want to ask her.”

“Then don’t, Osamu, it's none of my business.” Suna nudges the other’s sandwich towards him. “Finish your lunch.”

________________________________ 

When someone knocks on his door at four in the afternoon, Suna suddenly remembers that he’d asked Osamu to come over after school, the thought having slipped his mind even though he’d been the one to invite the other.

He opens the door right as the other has his hand raised to knock again, and he watches as Osamu makes an aborted movement with his hand before settling it to rub at the back of his neck.

“Hey,” Suna says awkwardly after no one speaks. “Sorry, I was taking a nap, forgot you were coming over.”

Osamu gives him a pinched sort of look, unimpressed. “You gonna let me in?” he asks, and Suna steps aside to make room. As Osamu breezes past him, he smells the lingering scent of something sweet and smoky. Suna fingers at the back of the other’s collar, fixing it, and the skin of his fingertips grazes against Osamu's hair, slightly damp.

“You showered right before you came over?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah.” Osamu turns around and stares, silently daring him to say something “That a problem, Suna Rintarou?”

Suna laughs, short and amused. “Nope,” he answers. “You smell nice.” He smiles slow and shows his teeth. “Hope you’re not expecting anything though.”

Osamu’s gaze flits away, and his silence is answer enough.

________________________________ 

They’re in the kitchen, Suna leaning against the cabinets and watching as Osamu whisks together milk and heavy cream and sugar.

Why had he invited Osamu over again? To see if he would say yes, mostly, to see if they’re still okay, but partly…partly just because he had wanted to.

They’d played games in Suna’s room for a while, but the problem was that he only had one console, so he’d felt sort of bad as Osamu leaned in close to watch as he fiddled with the controls, head almost touching his shoulder, and then, bored when he’d handed it over to the other to try.

After an hour of mindless tapping, Suna threatening to nod off for real, the tips of his hair brushing against the other’s ear as his head droops, Osamu finally suggests that they bake something, and so here they are.

“Hey, taste test this for me.” Osamu gestures him closer and holds a spoon out to him, and so Suna dips in near to lick the frosting off.

“Okay?” Osamu asks, watching his face carefully.

Suna wrinkles his nose, licking his lips. Vanilla and something else he can't quite put a name to. “Could be sweeter, more sugar?”

The other frowns and sticks the spoon in his own mouth to try. “Seems okay to me,” he says around it. “Your taste is too heavy.”

“Why’d you bother asking then?” Suna huffs and reaches over to shake more of the white sugar into the mixing bowl, taking the whisk to stir it perfunctorily. He sticks a finger in and then pops it in his mouth. “Mmm, much better.” He smacks his lips together loudly. “Maybe I should take over.”

Osamu stares at him aghast before taking the frosting back. “You washed your hands, right?” he says, cradling the bowl in his arms as if Suna’s about to snatch it from him.

“Yes, mother.” He rolls his eyes. “Just like you told me to. You were there.”

The older grumbles but before he can argue back, the oven beeps, and Osamu hurries over to pull on the kitchen mitts to take the pan out, seeming for all the world at home in Suna’s kitchen. Before today, Suna hadn’t even known they had cupcake molds.

They share one of the little cakes, splitting it in half, and it's hot, makes Suna hiss as he waves a hand at his open mouth, panting, and he almost chokes as he watches Osamu shove his entire half into his mouth at once.

“You’re crazy,” he says with a full mouth while wiping his fingers on the hem of his shirt. There's a burning sensation on his tongue, but even despite this, he relishes in the honey-sweetness.

“Hey, we did a pretty good job,” Osamu muses, still chewing, and there’s a smug look on his face. “Not bad for no recipe, huh?”

Suna makes a vague gesture, unwilling to concede. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

“Aw, come on, you _like_ it.” He reaches out to smack at Suna’s fingers as they inch toward the other cupcakes. “You can admit it, I won’t judge. You’re impressed, aren’t ya? I'm good.”

“Sure, okay, I’m _very_ impressed that you can bake cupcakes so _well_ , Osamu. Marry me and be my house husband?”

“Well, of course, Suna. Since you asked so nicely.” Osamu grins.

________________________________ 

Back in his bedroom, he flops onto the bed, grunting as the air rushes out of his lungs. Osamu hangs awkwardly by the doorway, so Suna beckons him over with a careless wave of his hand.

“Sit. I don’t bite. What are you so scared about all of a sudden?” He leans his head on his hand and watches the other make his way over to settle on the edge of his bed. “Were we like this before?” he asks, to no one in particular. 

The natural progression of things, Suna's not sure how that's supposed to work. Acquaintances to teammates to friends to - to what? Just that he knows that Osamu is always watching. He likes it, or he’d have told him to stop. And then the not-kiss, the not-rejection. Then. And now here.

Suna’s got a bit of cream on the corner of his mouth, apparently. He doesn’t realize until he finds himself watching Osamu’s hand as it reaches toward his face, the other’s thumb swiping at the cream, then long drag across his lips, smearing it across his mouth.

Suna licks it off. “Gross,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t do that.”

Osamu pops his thumb into his own mouth and sucks. “Mmm,” he hums around his finger before pulling it out with a pop. “Yum,” and he grins.

Maybe they can forget about it.

Suna swallows, and he sees exactly when Osamu’s attention catches on the bobbing of his throat and fixates there. He stills.

“Can I kiss you?”

Suna’s eyes dart back to the other boy, and he focuses. Drags his gaze over the other’s face, the twist of his mouth, his nose, the mole by his eyebrow, his mouth again. Thinks too hard about swallowing again and finds he can’t – like his throat’s too dry and he’ll gag if he forces it.

“I think you know that’s a bad idea, Osamu.”

“I know,” and the older's voice has lowered to a whisper, one that burrows its way beneath Suna’s skin and settles tight behind his ribs. “But I can’t stop thinkin’ about it. I'm sorry. It’s drivin’ me nuts.”

He draws back. “You don’t have to say yes. I just wanted to ask.”

Osamu’s got long lashes, long enough that they cast shadows below his eyes, and Suna reaches out to brush the pad of his thumb across, there, the flat of his palm pressing against the other’s cheek.

“Yes. Okay. It’s just a kiss. Why not?” The other's mouth parts, surprise flashing across his face, before it resolves into something determined. Osamu leans in, but Suna stops him with a palm to his mouth. “Just a kiss,” he repeats, and he's doing this for himself really, because he's just the littlest bit curious, too. The other nods, and it’s so strangely solemn that Suna can’t help but bark out a sharp laugh, uncurling some of the tension heavy in his stomach.

He rolls his neck, groaning as it makes a satisfying cracking noise and smirking at the face that Osamu makes.

“Alright. Get on with it, then,” he says and brings the other’s face closer. 

Osamu tastes just like vanilla frosting, and Suna’s hand slips to the curve of his neck to brush at the short dark hairs of his undercut as Osamu slants their mouths together.

“You taste good,” he jokes, pulling back a little, and he gets a glimpse of the healthy flush spreading across the bridge of the other’s nose, before Osamu’s pulling him back in with an impatient sound, and nipping at the swell of his bottom lip and pushing his tongue in for Suna to suck. 

When they finally part for air, it's with a soft, wet smack.

“Do you hate it?” Osamu asks, hushed.

“No,” Suna says, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t.”

Osamu leans back in to reconnect them, and this time it feels more insistent. Suna stutters back and allows it, his hand scrambling behind to bury itself in the older’s hair, to press him closer, and they tilt backwards until Suna’s flat against the mattress. One of Osamu’s hands finds its way under the hem of his shirt, and he touches him, thumb rubbing circles against the bare skin of his waist.

This time, Osamu is the first to pull away, and when Suna finally opens his eyes, panting a little, it’s to the sight of the other’s dark, searching gaze. 

“What?” He licks his lips, suddenly dry.

“But you don’t like me like that, do ya?” Osamu chews on the inside of his cheek. “Not the way I like you.” He sits back on his haunches and raises a hand to motion between the two of them. “This doesn’t mean anything to you.”

Suna thinks about saying that it does matter, that this is something he wants, that kissing Osamu is different from kissing Ginjima, from kissing anyone else. Because it would be easy to pretend, easier than telling the truth, but he won’t lie to Osamu, not about something that's important to him.

“No,” he admits. “I don’t like you that way.” _But don’t -_ His thoughts are a mess. _Don’t leave me_ , he thinks and doesn’t know why. 

Osamu stares at him, his eyes wide and intense and face too open, before he collects himself and his expression shutters.

“Okay.” The other is still looking at him, but his gaze stares straight through. “Okay.” He laughs a little, to himself, reaches up absently to wipe at his mouth. “Of course. I thought so. That’s fine.”

Osamu laughs again, this time loud enough that Suna winces. 

He watches the other boy warily, as Osamu climbs off of him and settles by the edge of the bed, the soles of his feet flat against the carpet.

The other boy settles his face into his hands, his shoulders shaking, and he’s bent over his knees like the curl of a wilting flower. 

When his laughter dies down, it’s infinitely worse, and Suna traces the white planes of his ceiling with his eyes. It feels closer somehow, and he notices for the first time, a thin crack running from one side to the other, all the way down to the pale blue of his walls. 

Osamu’s breathing is loud, the only sound in Suna’s bedroom, because he breathes with his mouth when he’s upset. Suna listens to each inhale and exhale as it passes through the other’s lips, and he closes his eyes, matches it with his own breathing.

_Right now, our breaths are aligned, and just a few moments ago, our heartbeats, too._

"Oh, God," Osamu says into his hands.

In the corner, the ticking of the clock, soft.

 _I’m sorry_ , Suna thinks about saying, but he thinks he might get hit if he does, so he doesn’t. He isn’t sorry anyway, not about his feelings at least, although maybe a little for Osamu’s. _You’ll get over it_ , his next thought.

He says neither.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to come over.”

Osamu inhales sharply through his nose, and it sounds a little snotty. When he straightens to look at Suna, however, his face is dry, perfect. 

“Probably not,” he replies. Swallows. “But I came anyway.”

“It’s not my fault,” Suna says next, feeling the need to defend himself. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“And you think I did, Suna?” Osamu’s voice is a little harsh, but he deflates just as fast, and his next words are quiet. “Believe me, if I could stop likin’ you I would. But it’s not that easy, and you -” Here, he laughs to himself, shaking his head, and Suna can taste the bitterness in the back of his own throat, like Osamu had left it there when they’d kissed. “You make it so damn hard.”

________________________________ 

Suna’s grandmother insists that Osamu stay for dinner, delighted that he’s brought a friend over. _You’re the first, Osamu-kun. Rintarou doesn’t make friends easily_ , she’d whispered like Suna hadn’t been sitting right there, and after, when she looks at the darkened sky outside and learns that Osamu plans on walking home, insists that he sleep over as well.

As Osamu stands in the hallway to call his parents to ask for permission, Suna takes the chance to unroll the two futons in the living room. _We can’t have the guest sleeping on the floor while you sleep on the bed, can we, Rintarou?_ , which he thinks is silly, but he's not going to disagree with his grandmother under her own roof.

He’s sitting there, staring at the pillow unseeingly, when Osamu peeks around the hallway and steps closer, looking unsure of himself.

He clears his throat. “Sorry about this,” he says, sounding very sorry indeed. “Mom said I could sleep over, but I can still leave if ya want.”

“You can stay. I don’t mind if you don’t mind.” Suna sniffs and wipes at his nose. “My clothes should fit you,” he says, gesturing to the pile he’d gathered. “Hope you’re okay with that, they're just shorts and a T-shirt.”

“I’m gonna go shower,” he continues, getting to his feet. “I’ll leave the door unlocked, so you can brush your teeth, so you don’t need to wait up.”

By the time he’s finished toweling his hair and returns to the living room, the lights are off, the floor beneath his feet lit only by the moonlight streaming in between the open slats of the window blinds.

He tiptoes his way around the prone figure and crawls under the covers, grateful for the darkness. Here, loose-limbed and warm from the shower, tucked under the blankets and hidden in the shadows of night, the afternoon feels like nothing more than a distant memory.

Just an arm span away, Osamu lies facing away from him, and the moon casts him in a silvery glow, his hair pale and soft around his ears. 

“Why do you like me, Osamu?” Suna whispers into the dark.

Entire lifetimes pass as his question hangs in the open air, the waning and waxing of the moon in an empty sky. 

An eternity before Osamu huffs, the sound muted, before he shifts to twist around to face him. “You can’t just ask about somethin’ like that,” he says, but he sounds begrudgingly amused.

Suna turns his head to look fully at the other, unblinking, and Osamu swallows before looking away.

“You’re,” he starts and then pauses like he’s trying to decide on a word. “Cool, I guess,” he says, the sheets rustling. “Your face, maybe, I dunno. It’s stupid.”

Suna scoffs. “My face.” He finds that hard to believe. Not because he thinks Osamu is above infatuation over skin-deep features, but because he’s very aware of what his own face looks like. He sees it in the mirror every day.

He’s not ugly, he knows, far from it, but nothing to write home about either. He’s got the kind of face that says stay away, and only a fool like Osamu would take that to mean come closer. 

Osamu, who actually _is_ pretty - although handsome might be the better word for it. It’s an objective fact, the general consensus among their high school, and both he and Atsumu are kind of minor celebrities of some sort, so maybe it’s the general consensus _nationally_ if Suna wants to be dramatic, if he takes those teen magazines seriously.

“You’re staring,” Osamu says then, interrupting his train of thought, and the look on his face is awkward, something stuck between smug and flattered and embarrassed.

“You’re full of shit,” Suna retorts, rolling his eyes, and he turns around, shuffling so his back is toward the other.

A few moments later, he feels fingers carding through his hair, a little hesitant, and he closes his eyes, imagines falling asleep like this.

“Does it bother you?” The other’s voice is soft, closer, when he speaks again, and this combined with the slow lulling motion of his hand, gives the atmosphere a surreal, dreamlike sort of quality. Here, Suna could say anything, and it would be fine, because it wouldn’t be real. “I can,” Osamu pauses, and Suna imagines time stilling. Tossing a pebble into a pool of water and watching the rings that form. “Keep my distance. If you want. I just need some time.”

His heart squeezes then, like someone’s reached deep into his chest, between the gaps of his ribs, taken a grip on his very core, and is holding on tight. “No. Don’t.” Such a thing feels unfathomable. “Don’t leave.”

“Okay, then,” Osamu says quietly, and his touch drops away. “Okay, that’s good.” The ripples fade, and the surface is calm again, mirror-like in its reflectivity. He presses his face into Suna’s back, between the shoulder blades, arms loose around Suna’s waist, and Suna can feel the curve of his smile. “Because I’m selfish, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sunaosa: ok great, now that That's resolved  
> the audience: wait but you didn't resolve anything

**Author's Note:**

> so i'm hoping for this to be one of my longer pieces, and i'm planning for it to be ossn endgame, but the overall goal for this is just to explore suna's relationships with himself and other people lol
> 
> twitter at [@atsusuna](https://www.twitter.com/atsusuna)


End file.
